Stage Fright, page 7
“We all have lives,” he said.
“Yeah, sure,” Merline said, deflating the cushion again. She looked up with blank eyes.
“You’re the best,” Jimmy said with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
Merline didn’t know Jimmy had a different predilection and he wasn’t about to update his status now. Sometimes it was good to let others retain their imaginations. He wished her well and seconds later was back outside, breathing in the cool air after the staleness of the lab. First of his errands done, he made his way back to the subway, took the #2 back a couple of stops, where he got off at Borough Hall. He supposed he could have walked, but he was under a time constraint and Brooklyn wasn’t the only borough he wished to hit today.
He walked down Montague Street, a commercial street in Brooklyn Heights with an array of stores and restaurants, representing pretty much any ethnicity you could hunger for. What you couldn’t find anymore was an old Irish pub named Eammon’s which had gone the way of the Dodo bird. It’s where he usually could find the man he sought. Instead, Jimmy made a right turn and walked up two more blocks to a quiet, tree-lined street named Joralemon. He always liked the sound of it on his tongue. Made him think of Superman’s father. Which made him then think of his own father. All knowing, flying about the universe, strong even in death.
Jimmy approached a small brick brownstone, pushing open the gate before approaching the door to the basement apartment. He pressed a bell, heard it ring loudly inside. It was the only sound on an otherwise empty street. He didn’t even see any dog walkers or mothers out with children in strollers. He waited a minute, giving the man who lived inside time to make his way to the door. But at last he arrived, opening it with a growing smile.
“Hey, Ralphie,” Jimmy said.
“You said before noon.”
Jimmy checked his phone. It was ten-forty-two. “Which it is.”
Ralphie Henderson harrumphed. “I heard noon.”
“Sorry. Pressed for time.”
“I should suffer?”
Jimmy took note of the man’s appearance. He was dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a white dress shirt and sweater, the remaining wisps of hair on his bald head patted down with whatever product he used. He could detect the clasps of suspenders that kept up Ralphie’s pants. And most importantly, a fire was lit inside his chocolate eyes. The dark skin of his face was freshly shaven. He wasn’t fooling anyone with his words, certainly not Jimmy. Ralphie Henderson was ready for adventure.
But wasn’t he always. Even a retired NYPD detective never forgot the hunt. Even if age had slowed him down, his mind was as sharp as ever, and he was often a sounding board for Jimmy on present-day cases, as well as the voice of reason when a hyped-up Jimmy thought he discovered a lead on his father’s murder. Ralphie, more than anyone else in Jimmy’s life, represented a perfect balance of past and present. He often kept Jimmy grounded. But more often than not he encouraged Jimmy to dig deeper, where no one else dared venture. He’d upturned many things on different cases with that approach, but not always on the Forever Haunt. Joseph McSwain’s murderer still roamed free. His ex-partner, even after all these years, still sought the truth, too.
“Come in, Jimmy. Let me put the finishing touches on getting ready. Perhaps then you’ll tell me what this is all about.”
Jimmy entered the small apartment, felt the low ceilings close in on him and opted to take a seat on the arm of the sofa while Ralphie disappeared into the bedroom. “I’ll fill you in on the subway ride,” Jimmy called out to him.
“Subway, hmm. We going somewhere?”
“Queens,” Jimmy said.
There was no response to that, and that was just fine. Jimmy used the empty time to gaze about Ralphie’s apartment. It had been years since he’d been here, since they usually met up at Eammon’s. Ralphie hadn’t yet found a suitable new local, and besides, it was still a bit early to imbibe. Five o’clock somewhere, but not in New York City—not even Brooklyn, he supposed Merline would say. So Jimmy focused on what passed for artwork on the walls of the apartment. Front pages from the New York Post, their big bold headlines screaming out at him, most of them having to do with one crime or another, some of them Ralphie’s cases. Many of the earlier pages were framed and behind glass, but in later years it seemed Ralphie had given up on such decorative decorum, and he’d just taped them to the wall. They were yellowed from exposure, torn at the corners. The most famous headline still made Jimmy smile: Headless Body Found in Topless Bar. Nothing said New York better than a Post headline.
But it was a particular front page set amidst a history of NYC crimes and scandals that caught Jimmy’s eye. A recent one, the paper not yet weathered, the print not yet faded. He knew it well because he possessed it too, tucked away in a thick file in his closet. But it stared out at him now, almost taunting him. He got up from the sofa, made his way over. His fingers traced the outline of the letters, like a blind man reading braille. Or maybe allowing the letters to sink into his soul even deeper, settling in. NYPD HERO STOPS CITY CRIME WAVE. A photo of a hostage scene on West 34th Street accompanied it, as did a small inset photograph of said hero cop. None other than Captain Francis X Frisano stared back at him. Jimmy stood silently, his mind frozen. Perhaps his heart, too.
Finally, it was Ralphie who pulled him back to the moment.
“So this trip of ours today, it’s about that?”
Jimmy realized he’d been holding his breath and he exhaled. Turning, he saw Ralphie beside him, so close he could feel his breath upon his neck.
“What else?”
“You’ll tell me the details in good time.”
“On the subway. It’s a bit of a hike. You up for it?”
“Like you said. Queens. You are a man of your word, Jimmy.” He paused. “So am I.”
So Queens it was, and the unlikely duo set off, dipping down into the subway system at the Jay Street station, catching the A train for a series of stops before transferring at Broadway Junction, where they then caught a just arriving J train. Still, it was slow going on the stairs, mostly because of Ralphie’s limited mobility but never once did either complain. Jimmy did his best to slow his pace and not make Ralphie feel like a burden. He not only wanted this man on this journey, he needed him. In truth, there was only one person on this planet with whom he could discuss his father’s murder, and that was this man sitting beside him in the near-empty car. People came and went on the subway, just as in life, but it was like he and Ralphie were on an endless ride, destination unknown, not unlike the identity of his father’s killer. Stations flew by, lights in the tunnels rushing by like hurried shadows, and eventually they went from the dark trenches of the underground to the sun-specked outside, the rattling J train rising onto elevated tracks, hurtling them toward their desired stop at 85th Street/Forest Parkway. A neighborhood called Woodhaven, and it was very possible clues existed here. If he could connect with the sister of Rashad Assan.
“You say she called you? This Seetha?”
“Last month. Said she had information for me. Then hung up just as fast.”
Ralphie nodded. “And Captain Frisano told you how to find her?”
Jimmy nodded. Felt a knob of emotion hearing Frisano’s name, the same as when he’d seen his photograph on the front page of the paper at Ralphie’s place. “Trying to help. His way.”
Ralphie pursed his lips, silence filling the space between them.
“Something not to your liking, Ralphie?”
“So the cops, for them this is a closed case.”
“Rashad Assan was the deli killer. The cops stopped him.”
“Frisano killed him.”
“You have the headline on your wall.”
“Where do you keep that front page, Jimmy?”
Jimmy turned his head, checking out the approaching station. Thankfully it was the one they wanted and he was saved by the conductor’s announcement. The clacking train rolled into the station, and the two men rose, got out when the doors opened and stayed where they were as the train then rattled noisily out of the elevated station. Jimmy couldn’t imagine how the people in the apartments above Jamaica Avenue lived with the non-stop screech of wheels. Maybe the rent was that good. Maybe they grew immune to it.
Jimmy and Ralphie ventured downstairs and emerged onto busy Jamaica Avenue, a two-lane street awash with stores offering up a variety of discounted items and ethnic foods, as well as old-school bakeries, laundromats, and an array of fast-food chains and classic diners. The people on the streets offered a varied mix—white, brown and black going about their business with bustling determination. Jimmy turned down a narrow side street, walking south toward an address he had memorized. Two blocks later, they found 88th Avenue, slipping past a church named St. Thomas; Jimmy was glad to know it wasn’t St. Joseph’s. That might have been too much.
“You okay, Jimmy?”
“I just don’t know what we’ll find.”
“We may not find anything,” he said.
“Why should today be any different?”
It was a telling statement that diminished Jimmy’s hopes. Over the years, he had pursued so many false leads, too many loose ends, and none of them could be tied together. He’d found only obstacles, stumbling over them without results. Today could be more of the same. Today could come up as empty as his mother’s bed. She had loved Joseph McSwain, devoted her life to him. She’d been without him for nearly fifteen years, and while she had her job and she had her kids, and soon a grandchild, how Jimmy wished to give her the closure she sought, even when she never asked for it. Memories kept her warm at night. Still, it wasn’t just Jimmy who lived to give his father new breath.
At last they came to a two-level house along the narrow stretch of 88th Avenue, its frame attached to the house next door. That’s how they built them in the post-war period, as families expanded and the population grew. First thing Jimmy noticed was the empty porch. No chair, no flower pots, just chipped paint slats. Still, that didn’t stop him from ringing the door bell, which echoed from inside, as though the rooms were a mirror image of the porch. He listened, Ralphie staying quiet as well. He rang again, waited, then knocked. From all indications, no one was home, and hadn’t been for a while. Ralphie moved over to the front bay window, peering in with cupped hands.
“Anything?” Jimmy asked.
“Don’t see a soul. No sign of any activity in the living room. No glasses or cups left lying around. It looks almost like the place has been cleaned.”
“Wiped clean?”
“You mean trying to hide something?”
“Don’t know. I know next to nothing about this woman,” Jimmy said.
“Seems she wants to keep it that way.”
“She cleared out about two weeks ago.”
Jimmy heard the sound from nearby, turned to see a woman standing on the porch of the house next door, a narrow driveway separating them. She was a light-skinned Hispanic and wore a faded brown housecoat that matched her complexion. Her hair, tied back in a bun, was graying at the temples. A cigarette dangled from her lips, unlit.
“You know her?” Jimmy asked.
“Know her? Not in the sense of how people used to know their neighbors.”
“Seetha Assan,” Jimmy said. “We are talking about the same woman, right?”
“Seetha, yes. Never knew a last name. Real quiet. Kept to herself.”
“She lived alone, Ms.…”
“Mrs. Mrs. Reyes. Occasional guests, but otherwise, yes. She wasn’t there long.”
“Lot of space for a single woman.”
“Those people, they’re rich. All that oil.”
Jimmy assumed she meant a person from the Middle East. From all he’d read about the Assan family, they were proud Pakistanis who had come to the United States many years ago. They were naturalized citizens, their children citizens, all of them hard-working and honest. Which meant they didn’t wear rags on their heads, they didn’t drive taxicabs. Nor did they own oil fields back home. Stereotypes were alive and well right here.
“Anything else you can tell us?” Ralphie asked.
“Like what?” Her tone had gone defensive.
“Something out of the ordinary you might have noticed?”
“Wasn’t nothing ordinary about her. Only thing I knew was she was beautiful, stylish with that long dark hair. She liked clothes, always looked fancy. But like I said, probably all that money from oil. She could afford it.” Mrs. Reyes lit the cigarette, blew smoke in their direction. Thankfully it dissipated before it could reach them. “Oh, and she had a man visit her every once in a while. Young, good-looking, drove a fancy car. Clothes like hers, smelled like money.”
“A boyfriend?”
“Never saw nothing physical between them. But then again,” she said between willowy puffs, “I’m not one of those nosy neighbor types.”
“Of course not, thank you for your time, Mrs. Reyes,” Jimmy said.
“One last question,” Ralphie said, “You said she cleared out a couple weeks ago. Did she leave alone, or with her mystery man?”
“Neither,” she said, “She left with a man in a uniform.”
“What kind of uniform?”
“You know, like a cop.”
Not a cop, like a cop. Jimmy wondered if her differentiation had meaning.
CHAPTER FIVE
“How about a cold one? That place looks about my speed.”
Ralphie was pointing to a corner tavern at the end of 88th Avenue, just three hundred feet from where they stood on the sidewalk. Jimmy checked his watch for time, saw it was nearing one thirty. Time enough for a quick bite and a brew. So he ambled along with Ralphie, entering through the old wooden doors of a corner tavern called Neirs, almost as though by doing so they’d stepped back in time. They learned soon enough the bar was best known for having been a setting for the movie Goodfellas. Mae West also sang here and he half-expected to see her enter and ask what fit their fancy. With pictures on the wall proving both, it was clear the bar was proud of its history, and Jimmy liked it from the start. It was the kind of place that was disappearing nearly every day in this city. The kind of place that made New York New York. Three years from now it could be a Starbucks. Mae West should sound like bourbon, not coffee.
“Two Buds,” Ralphie said, taking a stool at the bar.
Jimmy sat beside him, took a grateful sip when they were served.
“Got hot dogs in the cooker over there, all the fixings,” the bartender said. “Help yourself.”
“Thanks,” they said simultaneously.
They drank their beers first, eyeing the food with wary suspicion. Who gave free lunch?
“So, tell me more about this woman, Seetha Assan,” Ralphie said.
“Wayward sister to Rashad, who you know as the guy who killed all those deli owners this past summer. She phoned me, seemingly out of the blue, back in August, but hung up before she could tell me why she was calling. Turns out, whatever she had on her mind came because Frisano had suggested I could help her.”
“With what?”
“That’s the million dollar question.”
“You still think Rashad had something to do with Joey’s killing?”
“There was a possibility, remote as it was. But my gut said yes,” Jimmy said, anger filling voice. “Frisano killed the chance to find out.”
Ralphie nodded, noting the fiery tone. “Frisano. You still, uh, like him?”
“That your way of asking if I still like boys?”
“Men, Jim, isn’t that how you always answer me. And now I’m not talking about men. I’m talking one man. The ambitious Francis X. Frisano.”
“Whatever we had, it’s over.”
“Because he killed Rashad?”
“Because he knew how important it was I question Rashad.”
“So he acted in the line of duty, saved lives that mattered. Rashad’s didn’t. He’s gone.”
“And now my only lead is his sister.”
“Who has disappeared? How did you know her address?”
“Frisano provided it. He sort of asked me to look into it. Said he couldn’t, wasn’t protocol.”
“He’s NYPD. There’s no case.”
Jimmy nodded, then looked back over at the table where the food was set out. “Can I get you one of those dogs?”
“Why not, take a chance. Give me one with everything.”
Jimmy knocked back the last of his beer, got up and made his way over to the folding table, where he opened two buns, took two steaming hot dogs out of the slow cooker and slipped them in. He filled them with relish, mustard, sauerkraut, baked beans on the side. When he returned to the bar, his beer had been refilled. The two men dined and drank, making small talk with the bartender. The food was surprisingly good, packed with flavor. Jimmy got them seconds, and as they chewed, Ralphie brought things back around.
“So, Mrs. Reyes says Seetha left with a cop.”
“Assuming he was an actual cop.”
“You think not, Jim?”
“I don’t know what I think. Not enough information to go on. My gut says yes.”
“Because the cops seem to be all over this case from the start.”
“Which tells you what?” Jimmy asked.
“You tell me. You’re the one with the young mind.”
“Maybe she’s in real trouble, decided against hiring a private investigator. She called the police, they are protecting her.”
“But wouldn’t Frisano have been able to find that out? He’s not without resources.”
Jimmy considered this and dismissed it. “That makes no sense. He’s the one who sent me out here on this wild goose chase.”
Ralphie raised an eyebrow as he drank from his glass.
“What am I missing?” Jimmy asked.
“Not for me to answer.”
“So I have to go back to Frisano?”
“What’s the one question you’ve always wondered about your father’s death?”
“Why the cops didn’t try harder to find his killer. He was one of them, the thin blue line and all that brotherhood crap.”
